


A Merry Little Frightmas

by PrioriMori



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Christmas, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:35:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28205454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrioriMori/pseuds/PrioriMori
Summary: Oh, the weather outside is frightful. But then again, so are the guests...A holiday with Clive's family turns upside down for Frank when the Ghost Face comes home for Christmas.
Relationships: Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/Frank Morrison
Comments: 3
Kudos: 49





	A Merry Little Frightmas

**Author's Note:**

> This is a five-part special which will get a chapter starting today up until Christmas day. I hope your holidays are wonderful and wish a tremendous new year to everyone!
> 
> EDIT: Due to an IRL situation the last 4 chapters will be posted over New Year's. I have chapters 2 and 3 done, so next update will be a double. Thank you for understanding and being patient.

Well, it was official.

Ogden was by far the worst shithole Frank had the displeasure of being dumped into. The Utah city was a tourist trap of mountains and skiing like Ormond, but in comparison painfully more suburban with ten times as many people. He knew as soon as the plane landed he had entered a special circle of Hell dedicated solely to middle class morality and old fashioned American values.

Why had he let Clive talk him into this? The one year the old bastard’s brother invites him to Christmas he actually agrees to visit. Frank has no idea why; chances are he was bribed with something better than the promise of pie and spiked eggnog. In any case, the invitation extended to him apparently and was non-negotiable. Couldn’t be trusted to not burn the house down, so Clive said. Didn’t matter that he already made plans to spend Christmas Eve at Joey’s with him, Susie, and Julie to open presents and watch Rankin/Bass films all night.

Nope, he and his foster dad were obligated to haul their asses across the border to some other awful town to meet up with the rest of the Andrews. All nine of them crammed into a two-story dutch colonial covered in gaudy garland and multi-colored string lights. A wonderful way to spend the one holiday besides Halloween Frank has learned to enjoy again thanks to his Legion.

He sighs loudly, sinking deeper into the stale velvet sofa as _Frosty the Snowman_ drones on the television while the two children sitting next to him watch with mild interest. It’s the closest he’ll ever get to babysitting in his life, and thank Christ. At least he’s not stuck holding the infant on top of losing his brain cells to this poorly animated garbage.

Mrs. Andrews was more than happy to take charge of this duty as the dear old grandmother she is. Frank doesn’t think she’s loosened her stranglehold on the newborn since she got her claws in him. Taking a quick peak to the equally velvet armchair confirms his suspicions. The crone is all coos and babbles to the fussy, rosy-cheeked brat. He suppresses a gag and shakes his head, going back to glaring at the screen.

“Everyone doing alright here?” comes the sing-song voice of Clive’s niece, Pamela.

Pam is at least a decade older than him and mother to the three kids, but her personality doesn’t fit her age. She’s as superficial as they come; all fake smiles and manufactured good looks without any deeper semblance of individuality. It disgusts him to think there once was a person in there, chiseled away over time by an overbearing mother seeking to live vicariously through a perfect daughter.

“Oh, just fine darling. How’s dinner coming along?” the hag asks in an equally cheery tone.

“Perfect, as always,” Pam laughs, turning her attention to him. “I’m making hot chocolate for the kiddos, would you like some?”

Frank shakes his head and mumbles. “M’good, thanks.”

Despite hating all these people on principle, none of them have been outwardly hostile to him yet, so Frank tries to play nice. He doesn’t visibly cringe when Pam or her kids call him “cousin”, snap at Mrs. Andrews’ snippy comments concerning his appearance, nor threaten to rip Clive’s tongue out when he overhears him and his brother lament about the difficulties of raising teenagers. It's all pretend, he tells himself. This is all just a show they put on until the twenty-sixth of December, like the actors of a terribly written movie.

Just as the credits roll on their current film, the phone rings. It continues on until Pam calls for someone to answer it, which Frank pretends not to hear over the opening to _Home Alone_. Luckily for everyone Pam’s husband Doug walks in the front door just before the last chime, grabbing the phone off the receiver as he dusts snow off his coat onto the polished hardwood floor. The muted scoff Mrs. Andrews gives to this makes Frank’s lip curl subtly. A few hours into their visit he quickly realized how much the old bitch hated her son-in-law. Douglas isn’t a bad man; in fact, he’s the total opposite of Frank in almost every way. But she obviously thinks her precious Pamela has settled when she could’ve done much better.

“Honey, phone for you!” Doug yells before placing the phone on the hall table and waltzing into the living room. “Hey, buckaroos! Watcha watchin’?”

“ _Home Alone_ ,” the eldest child answers, not even looking up at her father.

Frank glances up at Doug’s face just in time to see his eyes go wide in a panic. He rounds the couch quickly and shuts the television off, much to the kids’ dismay. Their protests fall on deaf ears as he takes them by the hands and leads them to another part of the house.

“You know what mommy said, that kind of movie is too violent to watch,” Doug informs the whining youngsters matter-of-factually. “It's almost supper anyway, so let’s go get cleaned up.”

When he’s out of earshot Frank openly snorts. Of course morons like these people would find a comedy about a brat beating up burglars to be “too violent”. They better be grateful Frank hadn’t brought his copy of _Black Christmas_ , otherwise those poor, innocent cherubs would find out how violent movies could really be. He gets up and flicks the cable back on, ignoring the disapproving hum of grandma as she carries the baby off to follow Doug’s heels. Good, maybe he can actually enjoy himself for an hour.

His solitude is only briefly disturbed by Pam coming to the phone, her high pitched voice cutting over the dialogue. Frank finds it hard to ignore her when she’s so fucking loud, gaggling away to the other end about dinner plans or whatever. They ramble on for ten minutes or more, and Frank hasn’t heard a word of what’s happening with Kevin McCallister. He rolls his eyes and lets his head lull back over the cushions in defeat. By the time the conversation is over he’s lost all regard for the plot, instead staring at the lights dancing on the ceiling courtesy of the artificial Christmas tree.

“You doing okay, cuzz?” Pam rests her arms on the sofa back, leaning down to Frank’s eye level.

“Peachy,” he grumbles.

She places a manicured hand on his shoulder and pats in a comforting, if not condescending, way. “I’m sorry if you’re bored. Maybe after dinner you’d like to help decorate the cookies for Santa?”

There’s a glimmer of humor in her words Frank catches and returns. “Gee, think it’ll get me out of another coal lump this year?”

“Hm, nope,” Pam grins in a genuinely mischievous way. “But if we lace the frosting with arsenic, that might just do the trick.”

Frank raises a brow at her in surprise, caught completely off guard by her blunt joke. So there _was_ a personality in there, buried deep under the highlights and makeup. Pam sniggers and pats his shoulder a final time before standing up.

“Come on, turn that off and go get washed up. We have guests coming over for dinner in a few minutes.”

Frank sighs audibly. “Let me guess, more family?”

He doesn’t think he can stand additional extensions of Clive’s clan tonight. The ones here are barely tolerable as is, and it’ll just bring more attention to the fact he’s a black sheep. Pamela is trying to be welcoming, which is more than his piece of crap foster dad ever did, but it doesn’t change the fact he’s a stranger in a stranger’s house when he should be with his _real_ family back in Ormond.

“Neighbors, actually,” Pam answers to his silent relief. “The Johnsons. Their son just got back into town, so he’s coming along too, I believe. He’s around your age if I’m not mistaken…”

She trails off into a muttering spiel about these people, as if Frank cares a lick about their life history or how Mrs. Andrews still needs to return Mrs. Johnson’s ceramic casserole dish. As she leaves the only segment of trivia Frank’s managed to latch onto is how this son of theirs is some hotshot journalist who travels for work. Admittedly the single kind of journalism Frank’s ever paid attention to is true crime articles like those Julie clips out and keeps in the binder under her bed. Doubt this guy is into that sort of thing, he thinks.

Prophetically, there’s a knock on the front door. Frank turns around and peaks down the hall, waiting for someone else to come and answer it. After a minute, two more knocks, and finally the doorbell, Frank begrudgingly gets off his seat and sluggishly heads for the entrance. There's muffled talk behind the door, and he swears he can hear the telltale sounds of scolding. Great, another nagging witch to add to their budding collection.

With another exhausted sigh, Frank opens the door and interrupts the three strangers who quit their bickering immediately. The elderly couple gawk openly at Frank in confusion, but the younger man with them is beaming brighter than the Christmas star. It's insincere and forced.

“Henry, Norma, is that you?” Pamela calls as she rushes from the kitchen to greet them.

“Yes, Pam dear! I know we’re a tad earlier than you expected,” the old lady, Norma, responds.

“Oh, don’t be silly. You’re right on time!”

She ushers them in with hugs and hand shakes while Frank stands there uselessly, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. He thinks he should walk away, but his feet remain glued in place. His eyes dart between all of them, catching the man’s for a fraction of a second. A shiver runs down his spine. Huh, weird…

“Norma, Henry I want you to meet my foster cousin, Frank.”

Frank nods to the couple with murmured hellos and they respond in kind.

“And this, Frank, is Danny.”

A hand is held out towards him, and Frank reluctantly takes it. The grip is vice tight, pulling him a fraction closer as it lasts for an almost socially unacceptable length of time. Frank glares up into grey eyes, finding them to be oddly dark under the soft, festive lighting. They remind him of storm clouds above Mount Ormond’s peaks before a terrible blizzard. Alluring...dangerous.

“Merry Christmas, Frank. It's nice to meet you,” Danny says in a gravelly, pleasant voice.

Frank feels his ears burning red. “Likewise.”


End file.
